


Truth

by VentasServitas



Series: And the Story Goes On [3]
Category: A Series of Unfortunate Events (TV), A Series of Unfortunate Events - Lemony Snicket
Genre: Gen
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2020-09-12
Updated: 2020-09-12
Packaged: 2021-03-06 17:00:16
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 2,184
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26422279
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/VentasServitas/pseuds/VentasServitas
Summary: The Daily Punctilio is the country’s most read newspaper. It is popular, ubiquitous and widely respected. It is also intentionally misleading, and filled with everything from situations taken out of context, to downright lies. Its premier position amongst newspapers has been left unchallenged for decades, but now, after one too many libelous articles, Duncan Quagmire seeks to end its dominance.
Series: And the Story Goes On [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1852960
Kudos: 6





	1. One Too Many

Breakfast in the Scieszka/Strauss/Baudelaire/Quagmire household was always a tumultuous affair, a phrase which here means, “rowdy in the extreme.” On this particular morning, Klaus and Quigley were having a very animated discussion about something, and Violet was eating extremely quickly, for she wanted to get back to her room to continue working on her latest invention, a small scale model of a fire suppression system that she planned to fit to the house. At the end of the table, surrounded by three or four different newspapers, sat Duncan. He didn’t mind the noise, which was good since he lived in a house with eight other people, and no matter how large the house, there was almost always some noise or disturbance. 

Duncan wanted to be a journalist, and indeed he was already well on the way. He had written several articles for a small local paper, and each had been published. The articles were not on particularly important matters, but he had researched each meticulously, to ensure that what he wrote was of the utmost accuracy. Duncan believed that the role of a journalist was to provide information, facts and truths. As such, there was one newspaper in particular that he hated.

The editors of the Daily Punctilio had once had honesty and integrity, but those days were now far in the past. Like many things, the changes occurred slowly, insidiously, so that from the outside the process was almost imperceptible. The changes had been executed masterfully. It started out small, a little exaggeration on one page, a little misrepresentation on another. Slowly but surely the paper transitioned from a bastion of truth, to a swamp of lies. That is not to say that no-one noticed. Those working at the paper would have to have been literally and figuratively blind not to have seen the changes, but it is an unfortunate truth that in a world too often governed by corruption and arrogance, it can be difficult to stay true to one’s philosophical and literary principles. Many of the journalists of the Daily Punctilio failed to do so, many more had not had any principles to start off with. The few that spoke out were marginalised and pushed out.

Before the fire, Duncan had enjoyed reading a paper called The Investigator. It was small and published only monthly, but its articles were always well-researched and thought provoking. He had been most surprised upon returning to solid ground that The Investigator had gone out of business. While it had a dedicated reader base, the paper had often suffered from a lack of funds, and the problem had come to a head a few months back when the building that housed its printing press had burnt down in a mysterious fire. The paper had not had the resources to rebuild, and had thus quietly died, for none of the other newspapers bothered to write about the incident. 

Duncan usually started the day by reading several newspapers. Despite his dislike for the Daily Punctilio, he had a subscription. Regardless of the actual use of the information in it, it was important for him to know what everyone else was reading, and almost everyone else read the Punctilio. The paper had built up a reputation for journalistic integrity in its early days, and with no-one to call them out, had been able to coast on that reputation ever since.

On the table in front of him, to the side of his largely untouched breakfast, lay Duncan’s commonplace book. Every now and again he would take his pen and write a note down. Duncan had made a habit of writing down everything that he read in the Punctilio that he thought was misleading, or straight up false. Unfortunately, he had soon discovered that he simply didn’t have enough paper to do this, and had restricted himself to writing down the really big problems. Today, he had filled most of two pages, and he was less than halfway through the paper. Drinking from his coffee, Duncan turned the page and began to read the headline. He spat out his coffee.

Quigley turned away from Klaus and fixed his brother with a quizzical look, wordlessly asking for an explanation. Isadora was slightly more sympathetic, and handed him a napkin. He wiped the coffee off his face and the table, and began to sputter angrily, “Look at this!” he shouted, throwing the paper vaguely in the direction of the others. Quigley picked it up, and quickly realised what had angered his brother. “This is ridiculous.” he said, slightly calmer than Duncan. “What does it say?” asked Isadora, who was on the other side of the table and could not see the paper. Quigley turned the paper round, pointing at the offending headline.

“PARENTAL NEGLECT RESPONSIBLE FOR RECENT SPATE OF FIRES?” 

“This is complete rubbish.” said Jacquelyn, who had come round to see what the commotion was about, “But then we’ve long suspected that there might be a few fire-starters on the editorial board. It makes sense that they would try to cover up the arsons.”  
“Wait, let me get this straight.” said Duncan, “You knew that there were arsonists in control of the biggest newspaper in the country, and you didn’t do anything about it?”  
“Well you have to understand, there aren’t very many of us left on our side of VFD, and until recently, almost all of our volunteers were occupied attempting to safeguard the sugar bowl. We simply didn’t have the resources that the other side did, we had to pick our battles.” explained Jacquelyn.

“We have to do something about it.” cried Duncan, “Don’t you remember how much trouble the Punctilio caused when it reported that the Baudelaires were murderers?”  
“That was infuriating.” said Violet, who had sat back down at the table when Duncan had passed round the paper. “And it was so stupid.” she added, “It’s not like the Village Council had any authority outside of VFD, but because the paper said we were criminals everyone believed them, even the police!”  
“I wonder how many criminals have gone free because the Daily Punctilio attributed their crimes to someone else.” said Duncan darkly, “This can’t continue.”

“I agree.” said Klaus, “but what can we do about it?”

Duncan thought for a moment and declared, “We can tell the truth.”


	2. Allies

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Duncan tracks down the former editor of The Investigator, but it won't be easy to convince him to help

“It’s in here.”said Quigley, pointing down an alleyway. He folded his map and returned it to his coat pocket. “Let’s do this.” replied Duncan, stepping into the alley. It had not been easy to find this place. Herman McKinley, former editor of The Investigator, had gone to ground when his paper had gone under. It was clear that he did not want to be contacted, but it is exceptionally difficult to disappear entirely, and McKinley did not have the training to pull it off. It had taken many weeks of searching, and following up leads, but they finally had him. For the past few months, McKinley had been living in a small apartment on the edge of a nearby city. Duncan and Quigley had taken a taxi from Winnipeg, and were now almost at their destination.

The alley was dark, and damp smelling. All in all, it was not a pleasant place. There was a skip overflowing with rubbish, and there was graffiti all over the place. Around ten metres from the main road, there was a metal grate door. It was unlocked, and Duncan pushed it open and stepped inside. Inside the building was much like outside. The carpet was stained, and there was junk on the floor. The wallpaper was peeling, and the whole place was bathed in an uncertain, flickering light. The two brothers walked up the stairs, and came to a stop before room 071. “Well this is it.” said Quigley. Duncan nodded, but didn’t say anything. They were about to come face to face with one of his personal heroes, and he was more than slightly nervous. His hands were clammy, and his throat was tight. He took a moment to collect himself, breathed in deeply, and knocked on the door.

There was no response. Duncan knocked again, and shouted “Mr McKinley! We’re here about The Investigator.” There was a moment of silence, then muffled swearing from the other side of the door. There was a crashing sound, and then the unmistakable sound of a window shattering. Duncan gestured at the door “Get it open.” he said, and Quigley pulled out his lock picking kit. Not for the first time that day he wished that Violet was there, he had learnt basic lock picking while he had been alone, but he was nowhere near as fast as she was. Fortunately, the lock was poor quality, and he got the door open reasonably quickly. The two brothers rushed into the room to find Herman McKinley shoving his possessions into a suitcase. 

“We’re not here to hurt you!” said Duncan, “We need your help.” McKinley froze, a striped nightshirt halfway to his suitcase. His eyes flicked to the window, but Quigley moved to cut him off, and he seemed to realise that he couldn’t escape. He seemed to deflate, all the fight leaving him, and he sat down heavily. “What do you want?” he asked, his eyes downcast. For the first time, Duncan took a good look at the man. He had bags under his eyes, and several days worth of stubble. His hair and clothing were unkempt, and he smelled strongly of alcohol. 

“We want to bring down the Daily Punctilio,” Duncan said, “and we need your help.” There was a moment of silence as McKinley stared at him, then the man burst into laughter. “You! You’re just kids. You’re barely out of short trousers!” And he continued to laugh.  
“Personally, I don’t find misinformation funny, especially when it hurts people.” said Duncan, “And I thought you stood for truth, for integrity.”  
“I used to.” said McKinley, suddenly serious, “and then they burnt down my printing press. I’ve been on the run ever since, trying to stay away from them.” Duncan and Quigley exchanged a look of surprise, they’d suspected that the fire had not been accidental, but they had assumed that the staff had been left alone. To hear that they had been hunted was worrying to say the least. “Surprised? You think I’d live somewhere like this by choice? I’m in hiding, and I have been for the last six months. You don’t have any idea what you’re getting into do you? You’ve probably never done anything hard in your lives.” Quigley started towards him angrily,

“Who do you think you are? You have no idea…” he began to say, but Duncan grabbed his arm and he stopped. “Look,” said Duncan in a conciliatory tone, “We represent an organisation that is interested in stopping the Daily Punctilio. We can protect you and your writers. We have the resources to provide printing facilities.” After the breakfast table incident, Jacquelyn had called a meeting, and the volunteers had agreed that stopping the Daily Punctilio was in the VFD’s best interests. As such, they had pulled together the resources to buy a printing press, and the materials for the first few printing runs. Safety had not been discussed, but Duncan did not think that that would be an issue, after all, the Duchess’ house in Winnipeg had plenty of spare rooms, and there was probably not a safer house in the country.

“I know you’re afraid. I can’t promise that you’ll be perfectly safe, but we’ll do our best to protect you, you have my word.” Duncan got up to leave. He threw a business card down on the table, “If you decide to help us, just give us a call.” He walked to the door, “Or you can stay on the run for the rest of your life. Your call.” And with that, he left, Quigley following.

* * *

Several weeks later, Duncan was beginning to think he had misjudged the man: the phone had sat silent ever since he had got home. He and Klaus had begun researching his leads, but without a way to publish their story, the work was not particularly useful. On a more positive note, Quigley and Isadora felt they were close to finding another of The Investigator’s writers, and Duncan hoped that this one would be more helpful. Without the support of McKinley, they wouldn’t be able to use The Investigator’s name, but Duncan hoped that if they could get enough of the original writers they would be able to pull enough of the old reader base to make their story heard.

Duncan was about to throw in the towel and call it a night. It was late, and his head hurt, and he was immensely bored: cross referencing dozens of newspapers was not an interesting task, and Klaus had given up and gone to bed an hour ago. Duncan was just tidying his desk when the phone rang. He lunged for it and put the receiver to his ear. “Hello?” he said.

“It’s McKinley. I’m in.”


End file.
